Before building her home here, she’d spent weeks walking the forest paths. She’d lived in the mountains. She’d spoken to those whose families had lived there for centuries, learned their ways and studied their myths. She had found other powers in the hills. Some she’d contested, others were allies. All the while, she’d carved her place, carefully creating the proper boundaries, negotiating the wards and digging in roots. It was home now, more than the sand and rock of her homeland, or the high peaks of Tibet where she’d learned so much, or the deep glens and rolling hills of Europe. As much as possible, she had made herself a place of absolute tranquility and peace. The madness that was her life required it.
From her nightstand, she pulled out a long, slender joss stick. It was sandalwood. She had many scents available to her—cabinets filled with herbs, spices, leaves and tinctures of all sorts—but it was the Sandalwood that brought her peace. It was the Sandalwood that strengthened her vision.
She also pulled out a small box of wooden matches. Working in a counter-clockwise direction, she made a circuit of her bed. She lit the scented powders and leaves in each brazier. When all four were smoldering, tendrils of smoke wafting in slow circles in her wake, she lit the joss stick and stood at the foot of her bed, facing North. She held the stick out in front of her, closed her eyes, and spoke softly, invoking the Archangel Michael. Next she moved to the West and called upon Gabriel, then Raphael and Uriel in turn.
Her circuit complete, she placed the still burning incense stick in a holder beside the ceramic bowl, drew back the covers, and slid between the sheets. There was no light other than the faded orange of the dying sun, and the glowing tip of the joss stick, burned halfway down. She saw it in the periphery of her vision, smiled, and closed her eyes.
Very gently, the water in the bowl above her head rippled. The motion began in the center, rolling out in rings that matched those embedded in the wooden floor. When the ripple reached the edge of the bowl, it made a soft slapping sound, but Rebecca didn’t hear it.
She dreamed.
She woke to the sound of laughter. All around her, women chattered excitedly, bustling about in a rustle of silk and the scents of sandalwood and musk. When she sat up, bells jangled. She glanced down at her ankle and frowned at the delicate band of gold and its noisy bangles. She felt the cool cotton of the sheets she lay upon, and the fresh air blowing over and around her. It was not her room, and it was not her mountains. The air tingled with power, and she knew it for a vision.
The air had a thick, ethereal quality. Rebecca smiled and rose. She was surrounded by silken draperies. She pushed them aside and stepped into the room beyond. There were at least half a hundred other women, young and old, in various states of undress. The conversation of many more drifted in from doorways leading in three of four directions. In that last direction a larger doorway opened onto a long hall. The entrance was draped with beaded curtains.
Rebecca turned and studied the other women, getting her bearings as quickly as possible. Some washed themselves with the water from metal bowls, and others ran combs through their hair, or sorted through small chests of jewelry for just the right ornament.
She waded through wafting incense smoke and the clutter of toiletries and bed-clothes, stopping now and again to watch as others prepared themselves for whatever was to come. There was never a vision without purpose. She tried to sort the sights and sound and give them a framework to hang on that made sense. It was hot, and it was humid. Sand wisped across the floor, and she guessed she was near a desert, or a beach. There was no taste of salt in the air, but it was moist with humidity. The overall scent of the place was familiar, but for some reason it wouldn’t click.
Then one of the other women tripped over her as she stood, taking it all in, and spun back to her.
“Be careful!” she snapped. “There is no time to clean, or change, we must hurry.”
The words flashed in and out of focus in her mind, and then locked. The girl spoke Egyptian, but not the Egyptian of Anwar Sadat; it was the Egyptian of Tutankhamen and Cheops. The Egyptian of Alexandria and Cleopatra. Rebecca shook her head once, cleared her thoughts, and then raised her eyes to meet the girl’s gaze.
“I am sorry,” she said.
The girl smiled. “You must hurry, sister. The King has called for us. There is to be a day on the lake. There will only be twenty chosen. It is a beautiful day, and there will be no work for those who are chosen.”
Rebecca followed the girl out of the room and into a long hall. They moved quickly, and the others closed in around them, laughing and chattering. Rebecca kept her mouth closed and her ears open, and by the time they broke out through the front door and onto the steps, she knew that they’d been summoned for a special service to the King. The King was bored…he required entertainment…and the word was that his advisor, the sorcerer Tchatcha-em-ânkh, had been called upon to provide that entertainment.
The name sent shivers down Rebecca’s arms. She was familiar with the popular works of Budge, and she was intimately familiar with the rituals recorded in the various Books of the Dead. She knew the name. She knew his reputation, and had memorized stories of his accomplishments as told to King Cheops—which placed her several dynasties prior to that great Pharaoh’s life—and death.
She moved as close to the front of the pack as she could get. The vision was astonishingly clear, but she knew she must play her part. If she wanted to know what it was all about, she would have to become one of the chosen. As they passed a mirror of polished silver, she glanced at her reflection, and was astonished by what she saw. Her face and features were her own, but she was dressed in a very sheer cotton smock. She wore gold at her throat, and on her ankles, and her makeup, while crude and overdrawn, was striking. She wished she could capture the image, but knew her memory would have to serve. She wished that she knew what the others saw, as well. If she had suddenly appeared in their midst, unfamiliar and foreign, they would never accept her—she knew she wore the frame and face of a long dead woman—a woman she would never meet.
As they reached the steps, an aged man, his head shaven and tanned, stepped forward with his hands raised. The women, as one, dropped to their knees. Rebecca joined them, just managing to do so before she was left standing alone. The man was flanked on either side by two young boys with bronzed skin, wearing only short, skirt-like garments and sandals. The boys, like the women before them, were adorned in gold and thick makeup. Each of them held an armload of fine-mesh fishing nets.
Rebecca heard more whispered voices and knew that the man before her was Tchatcha-em-ânkh. He spoke softly, but the words carried, wrapping in and around them, seeming to come from everywhere—and nowhere—at the same time. Even in the eerie, half-life of the vision, he stood out—his countenance was clear, while those around him shimmered in and out of focus.
“You are privileged,” he said. “You serve the one King, the son of Ra. It is a glorious day, and some among you will have a special task. It will not be an easy one…you will man the oars on the boat of a God. You will be on display, and you will please. You will be called upon to be beautiful, and to work as a single unit.”
He stepped forward then, and began moving among the women. When one met his approval, he bent and touched her head gently. Each time this happened one of the boys draped a net over the chosen. Then Tchatcha-em-ânkh stood before Rebecca, and unable to lower her eyes to his feet, as was expected, she met his gaze fully.
The sorcerer registered shock, just for the shortest of moments. In that time, Rebecca, cursing under her breath, managed to tear her gaze free and lower her head. She waited, expecting the worst. She did not know what would happen if he confronted her in the vision. It would disrupt the flow. She might be trapped, or worse. Her heart slammed in her chest, and she waited, until—like the touch of a fly landing, Tchatcha-em-ânkh touched her head, and moved on. A moment later the cool mesh of a fishing net fell over her shoulders, and the selection was complete.
> “The rest of you may go,” the sorcerer cried. “Do not despair if you were not chosen. The God shall return, and in that return his dark mood will be lifted. He will smile upon you all. Rejoice. Prepare a feast, and music.”
Those not among the twenty drew back in silence, turned, and scurried into the hall behind them. When they were gone, Tchatcha-em-ânkh spoke once more.
“You will attire yourselves in only the nets you have been provided, as if you were a bountiful catch. Make your way to the lake, and you will be led to the King’s boat, where you will each take up an oar. Together you will row the God who walks among us about the lake, helping to lift his mood. This is a great honor…do not waste time.”
Then he turned, and was gone, leaving them to rise and hurry back to their quarters to change. Rebecca pulled the net from her shoulders and stared at it dubiously. The mesh was fine, but it would be incredibly sheer. She thought about walking among these strangers with nothing else to cover herself, and her pulse quickened.
Play it out, she told herself. If it wasn’t important, you would not be here.
She hurried after the others, found the bed where she’d awakened, and quickly stripped out of her clothing. Standing naked with only the gold ornament at her throat and the belled ankle bracelet, she concentrated on other things. She drew on the emotions around her—excitement, anticipation, but no shame. None of them was uncomfortable in the near nudity of the fishing nets. If anything, the soft threads excited them. Rebecca did her best to feed off of this, allowing her mind to clear, and channeling their emotions into her expressions and actions.
She knew that she had nothing to be ashamed of, but centuries of ingrained propriety were difficult to slough off. She was a handsome woman. She ate sparingly, walked miles through the mountains each day, and cared for herself meticulously. As with all else in her life, health was a ritual, and one she enjoyed. With the nets trailing over her shoulders and cinched in the center with a bit of gold rope she’d found near her bed, she left the chamber of maidens behind and followed the other chosen down the wide stone steps and into the street that led to the lake. She was certain that they saw what they expected to see—another daughter of the Nile on her way to serve the King. She wondered, though, what Tchatcha-em-ânkh would see…and if he would approve.
She was amused to realize that all of the chosen were virgins. The form she inhabited was that of a maiden. She hoped that Tchatcha-em-ânkh would not have them examined prior to embarking on the day’s pleasure, because she wasn’t certain which woman he would see—and it had been many years since she fit the description of maiden. She wondered, as well, what he’d seen in her eyes. Did he know? Did he realize another of power had entered his world? Was he threatened, amused—plotting something she could not comprehend? She thought it likely that, at the very least, he knew something was different about her, and so she wondered how he would react, and why she’d been chosen.
They were escorted down a wooden pier by a number of very large, shaven-headed eunuchs. These were so remarkably similar in appearance that Rebecca wondered if they’d been bred to it, or just trained and sculpted to match. She was fascinated by everything she saw—the ornaments, the attire, the immense stone of the buildings. All of it had been dust for centuries. She tried not to let her senses overwhelm her. She concentrated on keeping her footing on the damp pier, and not allowing the meager covering of the fishnet to drop from her shoulders.
The boat was long, like a very large canoe. It was wide in the center and flat, and running down either side were benches, ten to a side. At each of these benches an ornate and gilded ebony oar rested, waiting for one of twenty to be seated and take it in hand.
They were helped into the boat and led to their seats. The Eunuchs paused before each of them, helping to arrange the nets and their hair, positioning them just so to make the perfect aesthetic design—an image to please the senses of a God. Even as her mind rebelled against the objectification of the women, the attention to detail captivated her. The boat was like a huge, many-faceted ritual of which she was but a single part.
The twenty were followed by the boys who had accompanied Tchatcha-em-ânkh. They moved to the front of the boat, where they arranged pillows on a flat seat. Incense was lit in small braziers to either side of the padded seat. Palm fronds were brought and laid to either side and an awning was raised that blocked the brightest rays of the sun.
“He comes,” one of the girls whispered.
Rebecca turned her head slowly, watching the pier out of the corner of her eye. A small entourage made its way majestically toward them. Eunuchs flanked the King, and behind him, accompanied by two more of the young men, the sorcerer followed.
King Senefru was young. He might have seen twenty years, and he was slender. Between the eunuchs, if it hadn’t been for the golden headpiece he wore, he might have been mistaken for a boy. His brow was creased by a frown, and his steps were hurried. He also wore makeup, more elaborate than that of the boys. His hair was clipped to the length of his shoulders and he wore an amulet of lapis lazuli at his throat. Gold glittered as he moved. It rippled on his robe, in his hair, on his fingers and wrists.
Then the King broke the spell of his own majesty by speaking.
“I hope that you are right,” he said peevishly, turning back to Tchatcha-em-ânkh before stepping into the boat. “I have not felt right since rising this morning, and I can’t see how riding about in a boat is going to change that.”
“You will see, your Highness,” the old man replied. A day on the lake, with such beauty surrounding you,” Tchatcha-em-ânkh waved his arm to indicate the maidens at the oars, and the beautifully laid out seat awaiting the King, “will do wonders for your spirit. There are many beautiful sights along the banks, and we will see them at our leisure.”
Senefru shrugged, nodded, and turned. One of the eunuchs helped him down into the boat, and he made his way slowly forward. As he went, he gazed at each of the maidens in turn. He did not touch them—they were all virgins—but he examined them carefully, checking for any blemish. It was as if he was determined the day would not improve, and wanted any excuse to validate his mood.
When he reached Rebecca, he stopped and turned fully to face her. She kept her eyes respectfully on the boat’s plank floor. She felt the heat of the sun beating down on her shoulders through the netting and was suddenly very aware of his eyes, and the fact that she was nearly naked in his presence. He lingered, stepping to one side, and then the other.
“What is it, sire?” Tchatcha-em-ânkh asked. “Does something displease you?”
“No,” the King replied, distracted. “I do not know what it is. There is something…”
He shook his head and turned toward the front of the boat. Without further hesitation he made his way to the pillowed seat and arranged himself carefully. Two of the eunuchs took up the palm fronds and began to fan him gently.
“Cast off,” Tchatcha-em-ânkh called.
The boat rocked gently and slid out onto the brilliant blue water. Sun rippled on the waves. A short man with a shaven head paced to the center of the boat, taking a position between the rows of maidens. He held a small tambour, which he began, slowly, to tap. It made a susurrus rattling sound. Rebecca and the others took up the oars, dipped them into the water, and within a few beats, they had matched the pace of their strokes to his rhythm.
Rebecca concentrated on the motion. She had rowed before, but never a single oar, and never in unison with others. She didn’t want to draw any attention to herself, and it was both easier, and harder work than she’d anticipated. As she relaxed, the light drumming of the oar-master seeped into her consciousness, and her body—the maiden’s body—responded. The boat rode light and easy, and the oars, dipping at a leisurely pace, drawing back and rising again, brought them to a slow, but steady pace that ate up the distance with surprising rapidity.
They turned to the left and cruised along the bank. There were groves of trees, and banks
of reeds. In the sunlight the distant desert glittered like a sheet of diamonds. It was beautiful, and peaceful, and the King, for all his ire upon their departure, quickly grew calm. He spoke with Tchatcha-em-ânkh, who told him stories, pointed out landmarks, and generally filled in the last elements of a perfect afternoon. Rebecca listened carefully, but heard nothing of importance. She tucked away the names of places and kings, and the anecdotal tales that filled the otherwise silent journey, but she knew she had entered this time—this place—for a reason, and she remained watchful.
Now and then, the old sorcerer turned and glanced at her. She kept her eyes down on these occasions, avoiding direct contact, but she felt his attention like tendrils of spider silk brushing over her skin. More than once a slight shiver threatened to break the perfection of her rowing, and she was certain that—if the old man didn’t notice, he at least sensed her discomfort. It irritated her that he was able to affect her control with such small effort.
When they’d seen the sights of the left shore, Tchatcha-em-ânkh directed the oar-master to turn them toward the center of the lake. He said that there were some things he’d like to show the King on the far bank, and wanted to cross as quickly as possible. The squat oar-master changed his cadence to a series of sharp raps. He called out to the maidens on the right hand side to hold tight as those on the left continued their strokes. When the bow was nearly pointed in the direction they needed to go, he shifted back to the steady rhythm with a shimmering rattle of the tambour. Rebecca resumed her steady rowing, and as they progressed toward the lake’s center, the beat increased in tempo until they fairly raced across the placid surface of the water.
It appeared they would make a swift, unhindered passage, but it was not to be. A girl near the front of the boat, just to the right and behind the King, faltered. A large horsefly had landed on her hair, threatening to bite. Frightened, she released her oar with one hand and swiped at the offending insect. It buzzed off over the water, but the damage was done. Her oar went dead in the water, then caught the resistance of the lake and slammed back into her chest. The boat’s progress was disrupted. They lurched, and spun slightly to the side. The oar-master caught the problem quickly, slowed the rhythm and called out to all of them to stop. The smooth progress they’d been making ceased, and the boat shuddered, unsettling the King on his seat, and nearly tumbling one of the eunuchs into the water.
Blackest Spells Page 26